Press Conference
by alyxpoe
Summary: BBC One News Bulletin: Press conference with NSY concerning the reappearance of "dead" deer-stalker wearing detective coming up in an hour.


_I don't know: this stuff just seems to float around in my head like winged keys until I reach out with my gloved hand and grab one of them whilst hanging on to my broom. Love it or leave it, here it is. I'd certainly *love* to hear what you think!_

* * *

**Press Conference**

The press room is more crowded than a brand-new freshly packed sardine can. Reporters and television crews are standing, leaning against, or even climbing upon every available surface to get a good look at the detective. Newly-reinstated DI Lestrade steps out from behind the dark blue velvet curtains and introduces himself. For a moment, the room is quiet enough to hear the snick of a biro. Suddenly _he_ is there. Tall, thin, dressed to the nines in a shirt of deep amethyst, ebony trousers and jacket, mad curls tumbling down across his forehead from the humidity in the room. He stands in front of them with his arms outstretched and a crafty smirk playing on his lush lips. He wrinkles his nose slightly at the smell of too many living people in a tight space.

The crowd goes absolutely apeshit.

Dr. Watson steps out from behind his lanky detective and makes as if to pull out a chair. Voices erupt from either side of them; flashes on cameras and mobiles are like fireworks, blinding them. Instantly, John is on the alert. Greg steps a bit closer from the right hand side and John moves in towards Sherlock from the left, both men effectively blocking access to the no-longer-dead man. Both of them are wondering if perhaps it was a really bad decision to leave the reporters out here for over an hour waiting for the conference to begin.

Greg tries to speak over the crowd and the tumult of voices attempting to shout over each other; all of them searching for their thirty-seconds of fame. Some are simply shocked, others sound angry enough to fight for blood. Neither Greg nor John is about to allow that to happen. Not now, not after hearing the _whole_ truth about why Sherlock jumped and the mitigating factors behind his actions.

One rather short female reporter has clambered upon the shoulders of her rather beefy camera man and is cackling like a hen that has just laid an egg. Sherlock's intense emerald stare sizes her up in seconds. She is holding a microphone in one hand, the other is a claw clumsily grasping the greasy ginger strands of the big man's hair. His face is red with the effort of holding her up. He shouts "SHUT UP!" and the room goes silent once more. The reporter beams and pats her dark brown-absolutely-not-greying bun and looks quite proud.

Up on the stage, standing between the DI and the doctor (both with their arms crossed, legs spread apart-looking for all the world like soldiers poised and ready to strike at half-second's notice) Sherlock opens his mouth. John and Greg share a glance then turn their attention back to the vultures.

"I don't care _how_ you did it...you've got to have some explanation as to _why_ you did it!" The reporter precariously balanced on the beefy ginger's now-slick and sweaty shoulders shouts in a crass, nasal, whiny voice.

Sherlock's mouth moves as if he is repeating her sentence. _Correcting her grammar_, John thinks. _Deducing her_, thinks Greg.

"I will answer that in _one_ word." Sherlock's baritone snaps down heavily on the last sound of each word in his statement. A few surprised gasps from the back of the room, several eyebrows gravitate towards thinning hairlines, and one non-feathered hen preens.

Once again, something silent passes between the doctor and the DI as the vultures begin their tireless squawking over who has the most right to this fresh new piece of journalistic meat. Sherlock closes his mouth then his eyes and nods his head down to rest his chin against his chest. More flashes. Finally one of the idiots gets the hint and shuts the rest of them up. A waiting hush falls over the room. A thin bead of sweat rolls down the DI's forehead and tickles it's way down the side of his face. He refuses to move, to take his eyes off of the howling hyeanas for a milisecond. Beyond the preternatural heat pouring from the thin and oh-so-alive man between them, Greg knows John is feeling the weight of it all at the same moment.

Sherlock brings his head back up to a normal posisition and opens his eyes for dramatic emphasis. Unconciously, everyone in the room leans closer to the detective, hanging on his every word.

For his part, Sherlock is absolutely disgusted. _Filthy vermin_, he thinks, _always ready to kick someone when they are down_.

He gives the crowd a crooked, Loki-ish smile that does not come anywhere near the icy jade and flint of his eyes. He looks down on all of them, save for the two men flanking him as if he were the most important thing in this room to be protecting, even standing on a stage barely centimeters above the floor. _Oh_!

Sherlock spreads his arms wide, his gesture encompassing the entire room. Naturally, not a single one of the vultures has the sense to figure it out. He shakes his head and pushes the mad fringe out of his eyes. Sherlock turns his body so that he is partially facing John. He takes a deep breath and says simply:

"_John."_

Then spins on his heel and ducks beneath the curtain.

A very well-dressed man in the back of the room actually smiles and turns away, twirling his brolly in one hand as if the thing and not the man was the one with emotion. On the other arm, clinging casually, is an older woman in a simple dress. She smiles back at the man and waves her fingers just a little towards the stage. John gives her a naughty little grin of his own and shakes his head as if to say _Holmes!_ She pats the arm she is holding and they step together through the doors.


End file.
